


According to His Labor

by inksheddings



Category: The Exorcist (2016), The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Episode: s01e03 Let 'Em In, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:54:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inksheddings/pseuds/inksheddings
Summary: I’ll not be responsible for you, Marcus had said, but Tomas had never intended to let him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in ages. This was fun, but I am so rusty and out of shape. Hurrah! for new fandoms giving me a workout!
> 
> Title from 1 Corinthians 3:8: "He who plants and he who waters are one, and each will receive his wages according to his labor."

It’s just past 4:00 a.m. and all night Tomas has been tossing and turning toward the check Maria Walters wants him to “do something good” with. It’s sitting, still folded, in the pocket of his pants, discarded at the foot of his bed, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to read the digits since that first time. It’s too much to take in, and he’s no longer feeling so certain about his ability to determine _good._

What good will any amount of money do Casey? If it’s possible to bribe a demon, it’s doubtful cold hard cash is what it would bargain for. And what good would $100,000 do Marcus? Except buy him a whole case of better liquor and better seats than the last pew. 

Tomas shivers and pulls his blanket tight, but cold feet are the least of his problems. He shouldn’t allow his focus to be so narrow. He has an entire parish to consider after all. One that would benefit from a generosity he still doesn’t entirely trust. But Casey and Marcus stare at him from within his head and taunt him with his inability to even fathom the math of money.

The knock on his door is almost quiet enough to be either missed or ignored, but recent events have left him hyper-vigilant. He takes his time walking to the door, anticipating a second knock that never comes, and looks through the peephole with trepidation. Then he lets Marcus in.

“Ever been to Elgin?” Marcus asks, dropping his satchel unceremoniously on the floor as he brushes past Tomas on his way to the couch. Placing his hat on the coffee table, he sits down and sprawls, as if it’s his couch and his apartment. But Tomas has seen him drunk in a church; heard him bitterly decry himself as empty, like the bottle he’d been working on would likely end up. He doesn’t intimidate Tomas. He can’t be—not by a man who is no more or less human than Tomas himself. 

Tomas sits down next to him, either exhaustion or relief allowing him to ignore that space is limited and he’s so close to Marcus that he can feel the heat of the man’s body seep into his skin. For one crazy moment, Tomas wants to lean back, tuck his bare feet underneath Marcus’ thighs, and find out if sleep would come easier. He also wants to ask _Why are you here?_ But for the first time since God put Marcus in his head, Tomas feels the grating of his bones settle into something he just might be able to live with. 

“I don’t have any alcohol. Not the kind you drink, anyway,” Tomas says, knowing it’s not the smoothest way to bring up their earlier argument without actually bringing it up. 

“As long as you don’t make your coffee with holy water,” Marcus replies, rubbing his hand over his tired face. 

Tomas laughs and shakes his head. “Maybe, considering everything, I should.”

“The ultimate sobriety then.”

Tomas doesn’t know if Marcus really does want coffee, but a bit of awkwardness is threatening to make him twitch. Poverty isn’t something he can offer Marcus, thanks to Mrs. Walters, and as for chastity … well.

Tomas makes to stand and head for the kitchen, but Marcus takes hold of his arm, holding Tomas still with more than just a strong hand. Tomas looks at his face and sees words he’s not ready to hear visible in lines that map out a journey Tomas has barely begun to fathom. Marcus relaxes his grip and his hand trails down Tomas’ arm until fingers catch fingers, lingering like that same lonely uncertainty that hadn’t allowed Tomas to sleep.

 _I’ll not be responsible for you,_ Marcus had said, but Tomas had never intended to let him. 

Tomas links their fingers more securely, says, “Come on. Coffee,” and Marcus follows. 

 

**end**


End file.
